The Little Lady strode forward. With every step she looked more determined, more alive.
Romeo followed. He feared the ocean of mud as he had not feared the reapers. He kept thinking he saw an ominous pattern in the bubbles and ripples. The soft muttering of the ocean was like a thousand secret, resentful voices.
But he kept walking forward, because Makari was here. Makari, and some of the souls he had raised—and Romeo wanted to think that they had freed Paris from him completely, but if not—
“He is here,” said the Little Lady, and knelt.
Romeo halted suddenly, looking around. He nearly said, Where?
But then he saw.
The mud before them was alive. It seethed with swimming, writhing figures just below the surface, and with those who broke the surface, but who were coated still with the gray-brown slick and so looked like part of it.
At first Romeo thought it was a simple chaos of writhing figures, but then he realized: the disturbance had a center. The swimmers clustered around one person, who could not swim, but whom they held up, so that his mouth could break the surface and gasp air.
Makari.
Even with his face half submerged and slicked with mud, Romeo recognized him. How could he not? He had known Makari since he was ten years old. Makari had been more than father, more than brother to him. Makari had been everything to him, and then everything except Runajo, and then everything except Runajo and Juliet and Paris—
But he was still half the world to Romeo, and dearer than his own soul.
And yet he was upheld by the suffering of his slaves. Romeo felt sick as he looked at the swimmers. He couldn’t make out any of their faces; it felt like they had no faces, no identities left but their obedience.
“It is righteous,” said the Little Lady. “He deserves to suffer.”
“His victims don’t,” said Romeo. “Can we help them?”
“You can do nothing,” said the Little Lady.
That had always been true. But Romeo couldn’t help stepping closer to the horrifying tangle of bodies in the muck. He could do nothing to help them, and yet it felt wrong to look away. He could at least try to see their faces.
And then his heart banged against his ribs as he recognized one of those faces.
He called out, “Paris!”
It was only after those eyes turned to him, only after he realized Paris was here with him, that Romeo truly felt ready to destroy Makari.
Because Makari was half the world and dearer than his own soul, but Paris was one-half of his heart, and in the moment their eyes met, Romeo knew that he would do anything, anything, to set him free.
“Paris!” Romeo called again. “Can you hear me?”
But his heart was cold within him, because he remembered what had happened when they dueled, when he had begged Paris to remember him, and all the love and friendship in his heart were not enough.
Then Paris turned to look at him.
Paris looked, and in the next moment Romeo was kneeling at the edge of the path, reaching out his hand, and Paris grabbed it.
Romeo hauled him up onto the path. Paris fell to his knees, gasping and coughing for breath. The mud that had coated him was already dry, falling off him in flakes and clouds of dust. When he stopped coughing and looked up, his face was already clean.
“Romeo,” he said, sounding dazed, and then Romeo pulled him into a hug.
“I’m sorry,” said Paris. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be here—you shouldn’t have to save me—”
“You’re my friend,” said Romeo. “I will always try to save you. And you brought the Little Lady back. You saved us all.”
He supposed he still didn’t know that bringing her into the land of the dead had ended the Ruining. But he had to have faith it would.
“But you’re dead,” said Paris.
“Yes,” said Romeo, his heart twisting with grief. He had no idea how much time had passed, or if time even meant anything in this world. But surely Juliet had found his letter by now. He hoped that the world around her had changed, that she had seen the Ruining ended, but he knew that right now she was abandoned.
She was strong enough to bear the grief, he was certain of it. But he hadn’t ever wanted to make her feel it.
“I didn’t die for you,” he told Paris, looking straight into his eyes so he could see that Romeo was telling the truth. “I died to end the Ruining, and to keep Juliet from being the one to sacrifice herself.”
“How?” asked Paris.
“The Little Lady,” said Romeo, looking over Paris’s shoulder at her.
And then he saw that she was no longer still; she was rescuing the other people who were trapped with Makari.
“I am your master’s lady,” she called to each one. “Come.”
One by one, they came to her. They crawled up out of the mud, and she said to each, “I set you free.” One by one, they shuddered, and the mud fell from their bodies, and they walked away. Until at last there was only a single trapped soul left holding up Makari in the boiling mud.
The Little Lady settled back on her heels. “If I call the last one,” she said, “he will leave my beloved to drown.”
“Can he drown?” Romeo asked doubtfully.
“No,” said the Little Lady, “but he will sink for a very long time.”
Even now, Romeo’s stomach turned at the thought. But Makari deserved worse than this. Whatever last soul he had trapped with him deserved better.
He thought that, and then he realized: the Little Lady knew Makari’s evil better than he did. And yet she hesitated. Perhaps because she longed for a way to love him still, as Romeo had once longed to love a Catresou girl.
“Can we pull him out?” asked Paris.
The Little Lady looked up at him. “You would do that?”
Paris stared down at the boiling mud, at Makari’s gaping, helpless mouth, and the nameless creature who held him above the surface.
“I hate him,” said Paris. “But I am Catresou. It is our duty to give rest to the dead. And Romeo loves him.”
No, Romeo wanted to say. You owe me nothing. I owe you everything.
But Paris didn’t hesitate. He knelt down and grasped Makari’s wrist.
At the same time, the Little Lady seized Makari’s last servant. She pulled him out, and said, “I set you free.” But Romeo hardly noticed. He was staring at Makari as Paris hauled him onto solid ground.
Makari did not spare a moment for either of them. His gaze was all on the Little Lady as the mud fell away from his face.
“You are here,” he whispered.
The Little Lady stood, setting her shoulders back. “Despite your commands.”
“I loved you,” said Makari.
“You commanded me to live,” she said.
The grief on Makari’s face was so terrible, Romeo could almost forgive all his crimes.
“I did,” said Makari. “I regret it. And I have spent so many years seeking to undo the harm I did to you.”
Romeo wanted to say: What of the harm you did to Paris? To all the world? To Juliet?
He wanted to demand, What of the harm you did to me? But the words withered in his throat, because Makari was staring at the Little Lady as if she were all the world, and Romeo knew his words didn’t matter anymore.
“You undid my death and you condemned me to torment,” said the Little Lady. “And you destroyed all that I loved.”
Makari laughed bitterly. “What did you ever love, but the masters who used you as a slave?”
“I loved them,” said the Little Lady, as righteous and as sure as Juliet. “And I loved you, who used others as slaves.”
As she said the words, she stepped forward and took his hands. “I only wanted to be with you and do my duty.”
“I tried to give you that,” said Makari, and bent to kiss her, but she turned her face aside.
“You never understood,” she said. “I must make you.”
And Romeo knew, suddenly, what she was going to do. He nearly called out Stop—but he had no right. He was nothing to Makari and less to the Little Lady. He was no part of their doom.
He might have tried anyway, but Paris seized his wrist and held him.